Since she
had been there, dying from her victory over herself, she had conquered
her few failings, her pride and her passion, as if she had inherited
original sin simply for the glory of triumphing over it. She knew not,
even, that she had had other wishes, that love had drawn her towards
disobedience, so armed was she with the breastplate of ignorance of
evil, so pure and white was her soul.
The Abbe wiped the little motionless hands, and putting the last puff of
cotton in the remaining cornet, he threw the five papers into the fire
at the back of the stove.
The ceremony was finished. Monseigneur washed his fingers before saying
the final prayer. He had now only to again exhort the dying, in placing
in her hand the symbolic taper, to drive away the demons, and to show
that she had just recovered her baptismal innocence. But she remained
rigid, her eyes closed, her mouth shut as if dead. The holy oils had
purified her body, the signs of the cross had left their traces on the
five windows of the soul, without making the slightest wave of colour,
or of life, mount to her cheeks.
Although implored and hoped for, the prodigy did not appear, and the
room was silent and anxious. Hubert and Hubertine, still kneeling
side by side, no longer prayed, but, with their eyes fixed upon their
darling, gazed so earnestly that they both seemed motionless for ever,
like the figures of the _donataires_ who await the Resurrection in a
corner of an old painted glass window.
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